Dear debonair,
We have assigned profundity to obscurity
As such, words have faded out to yellow—almost white
But this is of no concern to you, is it?
You cross my arms above my bum
I bite the tongue you offer my mouth
That sunlit afternoon was dark enough to conceal our indulgences
People listen. They hush in anticipation of the noise.
You shove me forward; I coopt tangerines with how tight you feel inside
me
Then I lose my sobriety at what feels like the clearest of all states—
when you thrust inside me and I am
beat
And we are satisfied by the beating
And we proclaim our love Concurrently with your finish
Floraime O. Pantaleta
